by Liz Meldon
“Th-thank you,” Moira stammered, stumbling to her feet and wrapping her arms around her best friend. Ella shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have had to do that. This wasn’t right.
“Anytime,” Ella whispered back, dropping the gun, her arms limp at her side.
“Hey!”
“She just shot Edgar!”
“Fucking human scum.”
The pair sprang apart, Moira’s hands pulsing as brightly as they could under the circumstances. Ella had her other handgun up, cocked, and aimed at an incoming group of five demons.
“He was trying to kill me,” Moira insisted, but she had a feeling nothing she said right now would slow them.
Malachi, on the other hand, was a pretty solid deterrent. The chaos demon blitzed in front of them, seeming to materialize out of nowhere from the sea of madness behind the charging demons. He set himself squarely between them, his clothing torn, his hair mussed, and his mouth caked with blood.
“Back to your posts, gentlemen,” he growled, the order steeped in a gravelly, smoky rumble that made Ella visibly shiver. “Nothing to see here.”
“Your girl fucked up my boy. Step aside and let me take retribution, Saevitia.”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said, and I don’t give a shit.”
“Yeah,” another of the group chimed in. “This isn’t Hell. You don’t own us here. You don’t outrank us.”
Moira tried to get more light to her hands, digging deep within her being, thoughts of protecting Malachi, protecting Ella, at the forefront of her mind. It didn’t matter. She knew how to call it now—and under Cordelia’s magic, the well had depleted considerably. This was it—all she had to work with. Sighing deeply, Moira cracked her neck. So be it. She could make this work.
She had to.
Just as she started to move forward, ready to stand by Malachi’s side rather than hide behind him, a demon who looked no older than a first-year undergrad charged the chaos demon. He sprinted forward swinging a crowbar, which Malachi dodged with ease. The chaos demon caught the young attacker around the chin—then bore down on him and dug his thumbs into his eyes.
Moira’s glowing hands fell to her sides as she watched, unable to look away. The demon’s companions had stopped cheering, had stopped charging, as he screamed and thrashed in Malachi’s grasp. Every hit he landed bounced off the chaos demon like it was nothing, and his howls turned shrill when Malachi’s thumbs sank deeper—down to the first knuckle.
Slowly, agonizingly so, the demon’s fight drained out of him. He still tried; he swatted at Malachi’s arms, weakly kicked at his legs, until his knees eventually buckled, and the only thing holding him up was the chaos demon gouging him blind.
“Malachi.” Moira couldn’t even hear herself, his name dying at the tip of her tongue, drowned out by the battle raging between angels and demons.
And all the while, Malachi smiled. He chuckled. He looked as delighted as he always did when he watched footage of massacres, of riots, of violent altercations on Severus’s laptop—he reveled in the agony until at last an entire thumb had wedged into each of the other demon’s eye sockets.
He then dragged in a deep breath, as if coming back to the moment, and shook the unconscious demon off. His golden brows rose at the silent onlookers—a challenge issued.
“Do your job,” he snarled, anger-enunciating like Severus, and pointed a bloody finger at the battle—at the dwindling number of demons stacked against the eight remaining angels. “Fight the real enemy.”
When none of them moved, he took a step forward—and they scattered.
Moira inhaled a shaky breath, then smoothed her hand over her hair. Her ponytail held strong, but the tussle with ol’ what’s his name had turned her head into flyaway city—she could feel it. This was all too much. Too much blood. Too much gore. Too much danger. All in the span of… She pulled her phone out of her purse. The screen had cracked at some point, but she could still read the digits.
3:12 AM.
Twelve minutes.
She felt like they had been at this for hours. Weariness had worked its way into her bones—and they weren’t even inside yet. Severus was still down there. Her lower lip quivered, guilt twisting her gut. It was almost like she had forgotten about him. Forgotten why they were even doing this, so focused on the chaos around her instead. Her eyes welled with tears—shocked, exhausted, angry tears.
The last one mattered the most. Because it pushed her forward.
“We need to get moving,” Malachi muttered, turning away from the clashing figures, from the blazing angel swords, Verrier’s lone blue and black flame hacking away somewhere toward the middle now. The chaos demon reached out for Ella, but she flinched back with a slight shake of her head, her chin quivering.
He went for her again, and again she stepped back, bumping into the very edge of Cordelia’s magic. The ward shimmered slightly, faintly colored, a fleeting rainbow that made her think of blowing bubbles as a kid beneath the afternoon sun.
The sight of Malachi’s huge hand snapping around Ella’s delicate forearm spurred Moira into action. She staggered forward, grabbing at his arm. “Stop.”
“Look at me,” he growled, dragging Ella right up to him, their faces no more than an inch or two apart. She refused, her honey-brown gaze on the ground, over his shoulder, on Moira, unfocused and scattered. Malachi shook her, and Moira grabbed at the arm holding her best friend.
“Malachi, stop.”
“Look at me,” he ordered, shaking her one last time. Finally, Ella glanced up. He dipped his head down a little lower, holding her stare. “It was either him or you. I choose you. I choose Moira. I choose us over them, do you understand? I’d do it again without a second thought.”
An agonized scream cut through the moment, ripped from a demon’s throat somewhere in the crowd. Ella seemed to briefly search it out before she looked back at Malachi and nodded. “Okay.”
Moira had never heard her best friend sound as small as she looked. Malachi’s hold jumped up to her bicep, but he held her looser.
“Okay,” he said back with a nod. He then looked to Moira. “Let’s move.”
Before she could get a word in, he’d shoved her toward the building, and her legs just did as they were told. Shaking, fuming, a hurricane of feeling storming about inside her, she managed to pick her way through the piles of rubble without once tripping. Malachi followed closely behind, Ella at his side, her face still too pale. She had left one of her guns behind, the other clasped loosely, limply in hand.
To their credit, the worker ants had cleared a lot of the building away before the angels arrived. They were able to cross the lobby toward the elevators relatively unhindered, skirting a few larger pieces of concrete still left to be moved. The reception desk was destroyed. All the plants around the doors—buried. Dust and blood stained the golden elevator doors, in front of which stood Alaric and Cordelia. At their feet, a trio of dead demons.
“Apparently my eyes aren’t black,” Alaric said as they approached—growled, more like, his voice deeper, gruffer. “Apparently they are grey, which apparently was an affront to these bastards’ sensibilities.”
“Darling, you’re all demon to me,” Cordelia purred before stabbing at the elevator button. The contraption whirred to life inside the walls, and Moira pulled Ella away from Malachi, an arm around her shoulders, as they waited. Cordelia, meanwhile, busied herself with wiping the blood off Alaric’s freckled cheeks.
She couldn’t help but stare at him—at those full pewter-grey eyes, dark like heavy clouds before a storm. The hue had her thinking of her own pupilless eyes in Hell, and after all this was over, Moira planned to have a serious sit-down chat with Alaric.
Maybe even Verrier.
Because he wasn’t exactly a demon hybrid.
But she didn’t have full-grey eyes in Hell, so Alaric wasn’t really an angel hybrid either.
Right?
Right?
She pressed the pressure spot between her eyebrows, wishing that was enough to ward off the headache starting to gather behind her eyes. When the doors finally peeled back to reveal an empty compartment, Moira ushered Ella in first, followed by Malachi, then Cordelia and Alaric. As the doors started to close, they spotted a pair of demons—rabid, screeching, wild-eyed demons—charging toward them.
Alaric lifted his gun and took them both out, one after the other, with two shots to the head.
The doors closed completely.
And Ella then doubled over and puked in the back corner.
Chapter Six
“Sorry, guys.”
“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” Moira murmured, rubbing Ella’s back as she bent over, one hand grasping the railing at the side of the elevator. Her friend dry-heaved again, but not much came out. Moira pulled her ponytail out of the way, annoyed to suddenly find Malachi hovering right in her personal space. “You just let it out. It’s okay. It’s totally normal given, you know, all this.”
Moira could probably go for a little puking herself after everything she’d seen in the last fifteen minutes.
“Do finish up,” Cordelia remarked, and she shrugged when both Moira and Malachi glared back at her. She had her finger pressed against the close door button, wearing a totally unfazed smile. “I just think there might be a line of half-mad demons who want to use the elevator too. Speaking of which—cousin, I assume the foaming-at-the-mouth insanity was your doing?”
“I needed to ensure they kept the winged warriors busy,” Malachi insisted dryly. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Moira turned her attention back to Ella when she heaved again. This time, however, Ella waved her off and straightened.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, then wiped at her mouth. Still, she wouldn’t meet Moira’s eye, her cheeks a shade darker. “Really. I’m good.”
“It’s a totally normal reaction.”
“I know.”
“I’d puke if I could.”
“Right.”
“If there was anything in my stomach, seriously, I’d—”
“Okay.” Ella shot her a hollow grin, their gazes finally meeting. “I get it.”
“Seems like there are three sublevels,” Alaric noted as he examined the polished metal buttons next to the door. “Should we start at the first or the last?”
“Last?” Moira said, taking a shot in the dark.
“I’d keep my prisoners in the lowest level,” Ella added weakly. Alaric nodded, then pushed at the B3 button.
Rather than moving as commanded, a chunk of the elevator wall peeled back, and out popped a little machine: a needle, propped up on an extendable metal arm.
“Likely needs a biological identification,” Cordelia mused as she crouched down to examine it. “Can’t have Daddy’s idiot creations wandering where they aren’t supposed to.”
Ella made an indignant sound from the back of the elevator.
“Darling,” the witch continued with a nudge at Alaric, “maybe you could—”
“I’ll do it,” Moira said, shouldering her way through the cramped space. “If it wants angel, I’m kind of our only shot.”
Given no one could assign a label to whatever the hell Alaric had morphed into, she didn’t want the elevator to go into lockdown mode if it got the wrong blood. Still, there was a decent chance that it could reject her; she wasn’t a full angel, after all.
“Worst comes to worst, we could cut off Adriel’s hand,” Alaric offered with a shrug. “You know—the one Father killed? Doubt we could carry him in his entirety, but a hand…”
“Oh, darling,” Cordelia whispered, clutching at his sleeve. “I do enjoy this new side to you.”
“Oh my god, you two. Focus.” Moira rolled her eyes. Alaric had always balked at graphic violence before, but now that he’d gone through hybrid puberty, there was no telling just how much about him would change. Hopefully not too much. She really liked the guy as is.
With a soft sigh, Moira hovered over the tiny, ridiculously sharp tip of the needle, then tapped her pointer finger on it. She hissed at the pinprick of pain, but still waited until a little blood had dribbled down to pull away.
A hush descended over the group as the metal arm twitched, then retracted itself into the wall, the covering sliding back into place. Moira held her breath, bracing for the blare of sirens, the angry beeping of some anti-intruder system.
Nothing. A few moments later, the lift began its smooth ride down to the third basement level. She exhaled sharply, then moved into place as Malachi hastily arranged everyone, the unspoken threat looming: only nine angels had plummeted into the battlefield outside. Moira knew for a fact that at least ten worked here. The chaos demon stood in front of the doors, his hulking figure covering them as he crouched and held out his arms defensively. Cordelia and Moira flanked him, while Alaric stood directly behind him, gun resting just over Malachi’s shoulder.
Ella, meanwhile, waited off to the side, completely out of sight.
“Here we go,” Moira murmured as the elevator came to a stop, bouncing a little before settling. Her heart leapt into her throat as the doors peeled open.
The furious angel waiting on the other side immediately unfurled his wings, the enormous, feathery white bodies spanning the entire width of the hall. In fact, they were so big that they didn’t even fit, the ends slamming and folding against the wall. The force of it, the rush of air, sent a snarling Malachi tumbling back into her and Cordelia, which, as they all toppled, knocked Alaric over too. The hybrid’s gunshot went wide, missing the angel by at least a foot, and Moira cried out as she caught herself against the back of the elevator, her hands glowing white—and the demons around her hissing in response.
Just as the angel ignited his sword, another shot rang out; blood burst from his neck, spattering everyone with deep purple droplets.
“Move!” Malachi bellowed, hauling himself up and tackling the angel to the ground. They fell hard, and Alaric wiggled around Cordelia to join the tussle.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god, I just shot an angel in the throat,” Ella whimpered as Alaric and Malachi grappled with the still-struggling, gurgling angel on the floor. The elevator doors bumped into Cordelia as she stumbled out, throwing herself into the pile too, her hands glowing a vibrant orange. The angel’s gurgling intensified, his legs lashing out, the group blanketed in his enormous wings.
“Just stay here,” Moira said to Ella as she staggered forward and pounced on his legs.
“Hold him down!” Malachi ordered through gritted teeth. “Almost…got him.”
“I’m going to Hell. I’m going to Hell. I’m going to Hell.” Moira could hear Ella muttering, panicking, inside the elevator, and when she glanced back, struggling to keep the angel’s legs still, she found her best friend pacing, slipping on the odd bit of blood splatter on the floor. “I shot an angel. I’m going to Hell. I’m going to be tortured for eternity. Oh my god. Oh my god—”
“Get the doors!” Moira barked, her panic spiking as they started to close. No doubt the demons above were trying to get the contraption back, and the thought of Ella being inside when the doors opened had Moira’s brain screeching. “Ella, press the button!”
Her friend jumped for it, catching the doors halfway closed, and Moira let out a relieved breath when they trundled back open. Momentarily distracted, the angel nearly knocked her off, but Moira threw her entire weight onto his legs. Her hands continued to glow, and she wasn’t sure if he could feel the warmth through his clothing, but she hoped he did.
The Truth Touch in Hell had been so calming for her. Obviously that wasn’t the case for demons, but for Moira, she’d felt safe for the first time in a very long time.
She wanted this angel—Uriel, maybe? She needed a better look at his face—to feel just as safe. It wasn’t his fault they were doing this. It wasn’t his fault he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Unless he knew what Aeneas was up to.
Then fuck
him.
Moira shook her head, conflicting thoughts, feelings, gripping her, sweat dribbling down the side of her face, until finally a thunderous crack echoed in the empty corridor. The angel stilled, his body limp, and Malachi flopped back against the wall, panting. Cordelia and Alaric soon peeled away too, clutching their heaving chests, to reveal what could very well be a dead angel.
Verrier had killed Adriel, but he’d done it with a secret flaming sword of his own.
Would a broken neck do the trick too?
Moira couldn’t be sure what Ella had been aiming for, but she’d shot him clear through the throat. Deep purple blood coated the thick, pale column, the flesh torn open at the impact site. Uriel lay there, eyes open and mouth still fixed in a snarl, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Breathing still, but his chest barely rose before it sank down. A long pause followed the movement, until it finally happened again. Up and down. Pause. Up, barely, and down.
Alive, but maybe only just.
“Is everybody okay?” Ella asked, tentatively poking her head around the doorway. “Moira?”
“Good.” She waved her friend’s concerns off. She wasn’t the one risking her life by getting so close to the mouth of the beast, so to speak. Moira had only held down his flailing legs. Exhaustion clung to her, sinking deep into her bones, and she could have done with a little breather—but they were in. There was no time to sit still a second longer.
Grim-faced, she sat up on her knees, then tentatively pushed Uriel’s sword off to the side. It sat just out of the angel’s reach, flames doused.
“Let’s put him in the elevator,” Malachi muttered. Wearily, all four got to their feet—and failed spectacularly when they tried to lift the body on the first try.
“Is this guy made of concrete?” Moira grunted as they hoisted him up again, collectively only able to raise him about a foot off the ground—which would have to do. Ella hopped out of the way as they shuffled in, the doors trying to close but bouncing off Uriel’s midsection instead. Alaric and Malachi grappled with the wings, eventually just stuffing them in, the elevator compartment seemingly too small to hold all of him.
